Youthless
by BraveTheElements
Summary: I've decided to make this into a multi-chap. It's not a full story, but vignettes of single events in the two characters' lives. T/E, as always.
1. Part 1

**A/N: It's been a while, hasn't it? Most of you that frequent this site probably don't even remember me, and that's perfectly fine. This is my attempt at emulating American Gothic style from the early 20****th**** century; it's an aesthetic that I really enjoy. Also, this is a microfiction piece (it's intentionally small).**

* * *

Youthless

The past year had been something of an anomaly, reaching its zenith in the last few months. I never thought I would miss the anonymity that monotony afforded, but it was something that I craved now, missing it for so long. I dragged myself down the cold street; the sun had set at five, as it had been for the last month. It was December, three days before Christmas but the city didn't pulse with the usual life that Christmas brought with it. I approached the metro entrance; its steps bathed in the warm glow of the orange streets lamps and the reflecting blue-tinted light of the snow. The scuffling sounds of others echoed and outlined the tunnel as I began to move through it, just like in days past, the last vestige of my normal life.

That is, not to say that my life is anything abnormal. My experiences, as of late, are events that many have gone through, shadows of the mutual experience we all share. The abnormality I'm experiencing comes from the difference in these sets of experiences. It's cliché to say, but everything changes when you're having a baby.

I felt a slight graze coming from my pocket. I struggled to pull it out, the eternal knotting of objects unnoticed, until the very moment they're needed; they seem to have always been that way. But, I reject that, we all reject that, and we say that it started in a different condition, and it has no reason to change. Then, upon observance, by the act of Loki, or something completely supernatural, it has changed. Eleanor was calling; her usual ringtone muffled and ricocheting off the close walls of the subway.

She said something incredibly softly, seemingly held back, "What was that?" I said, "I'm in the metro and I can't really hear you." It was always a pleasure to hear from her after my work day. She usually calls about having me pick something up or to simply say hello. These little slices of amorous affection kept me sane after working.

"Hey Theo," She said a little louder. She was still muffled, contained, "How soon are you going to be home?"

"Soon enough, I just got on at Chatalet so it will be only a little while until I get to La Marais," I responded. I heard a slight sniffle; I couldn't determine its origin, "Are you alright, Ellie?"

She paused, and people had started to look at me. Their gaze promptly tore at me, and I knew as the conversation went on, the stares would only get more prevalent. They were unashamed of noticing otherness on the metro, and, whenever I spoke English, their eyes snapped in my direction. I would return the gaze, and they, for the most part, would turn away as soon as they were recognized. Shame burned away at them as quickly as their judgment burned away at me, "Yeah, yes, I just wanted to know how soon you'd be home."

I grinned, "Do you have something planned for me? You know you can't keep a surprise from me," I turned off my smile quickly, and retreated back from the others on the metro, "you're not a very good liar."

"I," she stopped again, "No, like I said, just wanted to know where you were."

"Alright, I'm at Saint Paul, so I'll be home in about ten," I started to move through the people. "Attention à la marche en descendant du train, mind the gap when you get off the train." I stumbled forward off the train and fell to the ground. My phone slid from my hand and hit the wall. I've heard that message every day, multiple times a day, but I've never taken notice of it; like my phone, it was normal until noticed. I crawled across the brown tinged floor and grabbed my phone. My hand and knees were covered in dust; they were looking to my more critically than before.

* * *

I ascended the steps to La Marais, tinged in the orange glow I knew from the other stops. The district was beating with life. The snow trenched streets gave way to dusted sidewalks, covered with people moving slowly, without hurry. There was a general malaise, but it wasn't negative; the air was charged with amorousness, the amorousness that comes with winter. There was a light snow falling, sprinkling the deluge of powder already set. I glided through the crowds, moving faster than others, but in no real hurry.

I got to our building, steps covered in ice, splashing light around the deluminated interior. I began the arduous walk I dreaded and anticipated each day. We were on the fourth floor, which meant five flights of stairs, something we didn't realize when we moved in. The Parisian denotation of floors skips the ground floor. Each day I knew that these steps would be mocking me as I struggled to move up them after the long day, but I knew that each step was a reward, each step brought me closer to home. The beige walls were accented by the oaken steps. They were ancient, remodeled but not replaced since the building was made in the early 19th century. The stairwell was the only part of the common building space that was lit up. A light yellow glow filled the space, casting shadows and hiding my feet as I moved up them. The fourth floor always seemed a world away, but it always snuck up on me, unnoticed. I got to out apartment and turned off the light.

"Eleanor?" I opened the door and took my first step through the threshold. The apartment was dark, illuminated only by the lights outside. They reflected off the windows and snow, filling the rooms with a blue glow, unnatural to the usually warm space. I turned on a light. It banished the folding shadows and defined the space, "Where are you?"

"I'm in our bedroom," she said softly. I took of my shoes and starting making my way cautiously to the back.

"Why are all the lights off?" I said as I opened the slightly ajar door that led to our bedroom. The room was lit by a few candles, "Oh, now what is this?" she was facing away from me; she hadn't turned around. I got closer to her, she was wearing her green nightware, "Candles, how romantic!" She turned around to face me, but kept her eyes averted. Her face was red, her eyes tinged bloodshot, "Ellie?"

She started crying softly and I stood, frozen. Her tears picked up and I moved to her on the bed, "What's going on? Why are you crying?"

"I, I don't know how to say it." She turned around and drowned herself in my pillow. Her crying was softer, drowned out by the sounds of the revelers and cars outside. I touched her shoulder and leaned into her.

"Ellie, you have to tell me what's going on."

She sat back up and threw herself into my chest hard enough to knock me backwards. Her tears started to stain my coat; I could feel them seeping into my shirt. I've never witnessed someone cry like this. I held her in silence, and she started to calm down. She was having trouble catching her breath, "I fell today. I fell really hard." She looked up at me with sullen eyes. She grabbed her torso, "I fell so hard, I fell so hard that I lost her." Her last words drifted off and she began to cry again, back into my chest.

I grabbed her tightly for fear of losing her. Her cries drifted off against the air, clashing with the people outside, fighting against their sounds, their affection.


	2. Part 2

**A/N: I've decided to make this into a series of related vignettes, not exactly a story, but mostly a story. It will focus on Theodore and Eleanor, but maybe when i'm done with this, I might move on to other people and settings. Again, all the chapters will be small, focusing on one event. **

The tinge of the streets changed hues gradually, moving in and out, like waves splashing against a soft, sandy shore. It had been four months since the tragedy of losing our daughter. The snow had melted, leaving the streets covered in the sheen of blossoming life; green clovers broke free from the surface of the concrete and asphalt, traversing the ebbing flow of channels make through erosion like the Minotaur through the labyrinth. The city had changed; the cycle of the year moved indiscriminately, taking little notice of its travelers.

Eleanor spent most of her time mourning the loss of our daughter. I had to return to my daily life as quickly as possible; people are a little less forgiving for the loss of a life in vitro, as if we hadn't lost anything at all. I hadn't bothered to ask for time off, knowing that all I would receive were weird looks, like the looks of the metro goers, but maybe I was just paranoid. The anonymity that I craved so much a few months ago, I had gotten. I would trade it for the chaos. I would trade it for the change.

Day broke and I had to start my life again. The early sunlight dripped into our bedroom through the compromised curtains we used for lack of a better substitute. The sun tossed tinged orange and yellow light around our room, tearing away at the soft darkness and emphasizing the shadows that existed in the cold moonlight. Eleanor wouldn't wake until long after I left. That was normal though, I think. I'm not sure. I can't remember if she woke up with me or not.

"Eleanor," I whispered softly. I hung over her sleeping form; the room splashed light on her, "I'm leaving now, okay?"

She didn't respond; only her soft breathing was audible. I leaned over and kissed her softly on the forehead. She mumbled to me and turned back over. She always smiled when she was sleeping.

* * *

My feet sloshed through the dirty mix of water and runoff that lines the streets after work. The snow melted in such a way that it mixed with everything and persisted in a half state. The water was blackened, blackened in an unnatural way. It would have been unsettling if it wasn't constantly this way. My constant exposure to it made it easier to accept, even knowing that it was against its nature to be such an odd color. I tried to avoid the puddles, but they were endless, dotting the streets with treacherously well-hidden motifs. I looked down, scanning the sidewalks looking for these hazards, but I never seemed to see them before it was too late. I always became wet, covered in the unnatural refuse of the Parisian streets.

Eleanor rarely called me after work now. It was infrequent before; if she missed something at the market, she would call, but that was it rare within itself. She was very attentive. What hasn't happened were the times she would call me to ask how my day went. I missed it, the little slice of home that I had every day; it spoiled me. I came to expect it with most days, and I wished it would come back. Many things have changed, and I'm constantly caught wondering when it will return.

I returned to my apartment, the lights were off as they have been for the last few months. The landlady refused to do any repairs right now. I moved through the darkness I was accustomed to and got to the threshold of the stairs. The mountainous climb was only emphasized by the approaching dread I felt every day when I ascended the stairs. It was a long cast away from the old feeling I had when approaching the stairs. I knew that there was nothing waiting for me at the top. Eleanor would be listlessly waiting around the house, moving slowly without determination. It kills me to think this way; I shouldn't; I won't; I do every day. I trudged up the wooden stairs; they creaked softly as I moved up them. The decay was uniform, and it was apparent in the sounds of the steps.

I got to the door and struggled with my keys. I swung the door open and was greeted by soft lighting, illuminating the red motif of our apartment. It was good to see the lights on. "Eleanor? I'm home."

"Hey Theo," she said softly from the living room. I moved forward and took notice of her. She was sitting on the couch, reading a book. She put it down and stood up, "How was work?"

Her apparent normality startled me, "Oh, it was really well. Speaking of, you seem really well today."

Her face jolted and rested into a slight smile, "Yeah, I feel a little better today."

"That's so good," I pulled her into me. Her body was rigid, but she fell into me eventually, "It was time to start moving forward, isn't it?"

"That was easy for you to say," she gently pulled back from me, "You've been well for months now."

"What are you saying?"

She turned away from me, "You just got over it so quickly," she paused, "It's like,"

I interrupted her, "It's like what?"

"It's like you never cared," her words took the air from my lungs. Her eyes welled up and tears started to trickle down from them.

"Are you serious?" I raised my voice, "Are you serious?"

"Yes, Theodore I am." She shouted, "It's so easy for you to move on; a piece of me died with her that day, and you never seemed to care."

"I cried for weeks, Eleanor," I was shouting, "She was a part of me too, and that part of me died with her too, and I can't believe you'd think otherwise."

She turned away from me, "You went straight to work after she died."

"It's because I had to," I responded, "I had to move forward because I didn't want to be trapped. It's been months, Eleanor, months." I shot to her, "She's died, and it was a tragedy, but we need to move on."

"Say her name."

"What?"

She turned back to me, "You never say her name, what was her name going to be?"

"Elizabeth," I sighed, "But Elizabeth, she's gone now."

"And you never cared," she turned and walked quickly into our room, shutting the door behind her.

I went to the handle and rattled it; she had locked it behind her, "Eleanor, let me in," she didn't respond. I shook the handle; it rattled and seemed close to falling apart. If I kept at it, I would have fallen off, completely out of repair.


End file.
